If you're reading this right now, chances are, you're blazed off your rocker. Since you're incapable of studying or doing anything productive, might as well go out there and rent a classic stoner film because you probably lacked the foresight to get your Netflix cue arranged with 4/20 in mind...
Harold & Kumar Go To White Castle (2004): If you're of the Indian/Asian pothead variety, this one's for you.
In the wake of Ashlee Simpson's lip-synch debacle on SNL nearly two years ago, Kelefa Sanneh wrote a diatribe against its most strident critics in The New York Times. "The Rap Against Rockism" asked "Could it really be a coincidence that rockist complaints often pit straight white men against the rest of the world?" (A rockist, of course, being a subscriber to the creed of authenticity and a strict guitars-drums-bass worldview.) In other words, is "alternative rock," in all its monikers, yet another white boys' club defined by its own exclusivity?
Coachella, a documentary on the six-year-old Indio, California music festival of the same name, incessantly begs such questions by refusing to play to its strengths.
It breaks my heart to have to say this, but Freddie Prinze Jr. turned 30 this month. That's right, kids, the guy whose boy-next-door charm made She's All That watchable has hit the big 3-0 ... and he's had one hell of a ride.
Much of the hype surrounding the Flaming Lips' long-in-the-works 12th album jumped on frontman Wayne Coyne's murmurs about "more guitars." The Oklahoma City veterans' last two albums, 1999's brilliant The Soft Bulletin and 2002's kinda brilliant Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots, eschewed the band's tattered punk threads for heady, orchestrated prog.
Their music has been dubbed new-wave, pop-punk and various combinations thereof, but stellastarr* just likes to call it "rock." Between watching soft-core porns and touring to promote their album, Harmonies for the Haunted, stellastarr*'s pretty busy these days.
Street: How would you define your music?
At first glance, nothing seems to be appealing about the new horror film Slither. In typical horror movie fashion, giant red slugs chase hapless South Carolina bumpkins up and down farm houses, through bathtubs, and other charming facets of small-town America.
There is absolutely no room in 2006 for Sharon Stone's 48-year-old breasts.
Since Basic Instinct 2 sports scarcely any other images -- excepting car crashes and endlessly-recurring exteriors of large phallic buildings which can all be read as metaphors for Sharon Stone's breasts -- I am going to venture that there is no room in 2006 for Basic Instinct 2.
A sad attempt to revive the '80s/'90s sex thriller genre, Basic Instinct 2 suffers from severe temporal confusion.